He needs you more than he needs me
by Fezzes at 221b
Summary: "She has minor injuries." Sherlock said from a few feet behind them. John turned around, frowning. "Sherlock, you shot her in the leg." Sherlock frowned at John and held a finger to his lips. "What was that?" Came Lestrade's faint voice from the phone. "Just a bullet wound."


**And I'm back.**

 **Have a great day guys.**

 **Fez.**

"Why do you always do this, Mycroft?" Sherlock directed the jibe over his shoulder, not tearing his eyes away from the black-clad woman in front of him.

A gun was held in his steady hand, the other spread out to cover John and his brother.

"Well, the Holmes brothers." The woman sneered. Her face was obscured by a black mask.

"I have to say," she went on, holding two semi-automatic guns in both hands, one hovering over Sherlock and the other over John. "I was only expecting one of you."

"We aim to please." Sherlock replied snidely.

"How low the mighty have fallen," John frowned. She was stalling. Why couldn't she just shoot both guns at once and be over it.

"Relying on your baby brother to protect you. Where are the government agencies? The CIA, SAS, FBI, MI6? I'm disappointed."

"I'm fairly sure at least three of them are American. If you're looking for them, you'll be even more disappointed." Sherlock raised one eyebrow.

The woman chuckled. "But really boys, where are they?"

Mycroft cleared his throat. "Well, Miss Quinn, if you are trying to locate them, turn around."

Miss Quinn, as Mycroft had addressed her, paled and turned around.

To see absolutely nothing.

"Amateur." Mycroft scoffed and Sherlock shot her in the leg.

She crumpled to the floor whimpering, dropping her guns as she fell. John craned his neck to see part of the wound. The bullet had fractured her knee-cap and possibly another bone. It was embedded pretty deep, one reason why you shouldn't use semi's at a few meters distance.

Sherlock spun around, giving Mycroft a once over.

"That's going to need to be laundered." Sherlock commented on Mycroft's suit, where it had specks of mud and dust from their chase.

"I'll take yours in too?" Mycroft offered dryly.

"Nah," Sherlock smoothed down his lapels. "I'll have to settle with a lint roller."

Mycroft smirked and gestured at the assassin on the floor of the alleyway.

"Well? Go call your police friend." he said and Sherlock turned away to dial Lestrade to bring a patrol car over to take the frankly pathetic assassin away.

"So, this is the third attempted assassination this year." John remarked, glancing sideways at the older man.

"You'll get a wodge of cash in a few days, John. Don't fret." Mycroft cast a look of disdain at Quinn.

"She has minor injuries." Sherlock said from a few feet behind them. John turned around, frowning.

"Sherlock, you shot her in the leg." Mycroft turned around as Sherlock frowned at John and held a finger to his lips.

"What was that?" Came Lestrade's faint voice from the phone.

"Minor injuries, yes. A bullet wound." Sherlock's gaze fixed on something behind John and his face contorted in horror.

"John!" He whipped around just as Quinn was getting to her feet, her face twisted in pain and hate. Her gun was clutched in shaking hands and her face was pale and sweating.

The gun clicked, as the three of them were frozen in shock.

The hammer flicked back, her arms jerked. John felt Sherlock tug him back, but too late.

The bullet thudded into a chest. John's eyes opened and could only see grey fabric.

The bulk in front of him feel and in a split second, John realised.

"Mycroft!" Yelled Sherlock, pulling John behind him, covering John as Mycroft had. He pulled out the gun from his pocket and fired three times. The arm that held the gun, one that grazed her temple and the last in her unwounded leg, felling her again.

John, meanwhile, had crawled in front of Sherlock, bending over Mycroft.

"Why did you do that? Why?!" He had tears in his eyes. He had never really cared for him much, but he knew the brothers loved each other, although they didn't exactly show it in the normal way.

The bullet had hit him right in the chest, blood pouring out. John was fairly sure he could see bone in the torn up mess.

"He... He needs you more... More than he needs me..." his lungs rattle and he gurgled up his last breath.

Sherlock curled in on himself and cried. John could only stare at the older man, dead on the floor, frozen in his thoughts and despair as sirens began to echo in the distance.


End file.
